Part 12

Peter felt in her a coldness that passed. She was looking over the moors as though she followed the blind eyes of the naked boy. Her attitude suggested that she, too, was part of this challenge. Her dress, conveying to Peter an impression of complicated and finished art, fell away from her shoulders as, with head flung back, she filled her eyes with the beauty of earth and sky. She interpreted in radiant life the cold metal of the statue. Civilisation was justified in her, or it could not be justified.

"Have you never any doubt?" said Peter, wistfully impulsive.

Lady Mary turned slowly from the moor. Her calm eyes swept over him.

"Doubt?" she echoed.

"Do you never wonder whether all this"--Peter made one of the large gestures of his mother--"is worth the noise and the dirt over there? Have you no doubt at all?"

"How is it possible to doubt?" she calmly responded. She stood proudly facing him. But she read perplexity in his face and, as it seemed to Peter, she stooped to him.

"Don't you see," she almost pleaded, "that either we must believe in ourselves or make way; and we do believe. I believe in all this"--she faintly parodied Peter's large gesture--"and I believe in myself."

There was a pause, and it was Lady Mary who spoke again. Almost it seemed that she wanted to make her point.

"You, at any rate," she urged him, "have learned to believe a little." She looked towards the hut on the terrace, and Peter followed her thoughts.

The trees stirred a moment, and laughter came from the open room. But these two heard only the voice of Eustace Haversham, and saw his lighted features vivid in memory. The last colour of the sunset was full upon her as she faced her uncle's empty place. Its emptiness to-night was an omen of the eternal emptiness to come. Her mouth quivered, and tears shone suddenly under her lids as she turned again to Peter.

"I believe he is worth the whole world," she said, and her voice broke.

Her tears seemed to remove every barrier. Peter saw in her eyes an appeal for an equal faith. She felt the drops on her cheek, and turned away into the shadow.

"I, too, believe," Peter deeply whispered.

Then he noticed how her hand lay unprotected upon the pedestal of the statue, vaguely delicate upon the hard metal.

He impulsively bent and touched it with his lips. She did not start or cry out, but turned again slowly towards him. She read in his eyes faith merely and dedication.

"I am glad you did that," she said in a level voice.

Then they went, as by consent, towards the lighted windows of the drawing-room.

Next morning, ten days before polling day at Sandhaven, Peter was summoned away by telegram to Hamingburgh. His uncle had suddenly been stricken seriously ill. Peter bade his friends a quick farewell and caught the first train from York.

XXIX

When Peter found his uncle stretched helplessly in bed with all the ceremony about him of an urgent case, he reproached himself for having thought of him so little during his years of health. He had taken his uncle for granted as the sanguine and gracious benefactor. It had not occurred to him to probe the motives of his uncle's affection, or to ask whether he was making him an adequate return.

Now it was too late. When Peter arrived in Hamingburgh his uncle was already unconscious, and he did not recover sufficiently to recognise his nephew. A sudden seizure ended with a rush of blood to the brain; and Peter was left heir to a personal estate of over £90,000. Peter had to be content with his mother's assurance that his uncle died with entire faith in his nephew's ability to spend a fortune.

The next weeks passed in ending all connection with Hamingburgh, which Peter now found intolerable, and in preparing for life in London commensurate with his new ideas. He took rooms for himself and his mother in Curzon Street, to be made ready for the autumn season.

"We will have everything very beautiful, and we will have only what is necessary," he told his mother as they talked things over in their flat at Golder's Green. "Of course we must sell all this stuff."

He waved his hands in an inclusive gesture toward the chairs and tables. Mrs. Paragon mildly looked about her.

"But, Peter, I thought you liked all this pretty furniture."

"It's modern," said Peter briefly. "There is no such thing as modern furniture. Ask Marbury."

He came and sat on the arm of his mother's chair.

"I must get Marbury to help. I want to see you talking to Lady Mary over a tea-table by the Brother's Adam."

"Peter, this is the third time to-day you have mentioned Lord Marbury's sister."

"Naturally, mother. This is polling day at Highbury. I've been wondering how things are going."

A few days later Marbury came to town and took his seat as member for Sandhaven. Peter secured him for the following evening, and they all three dined together at the flat in Golder's Green. Marbury was called upon for advice as to Curzon Street.

"Peter," he said, "this is a new phase. Don't encourage him, Mrs. Paragon. He wasn't intended for an exquisite. He's too robust."

"He does not need encouraging," said Mrs. Paragon. She had calmly accepted Peter's new enthusiasm, and now only wondered how long it would endure.

"Peter has already sold all our furniture," she added by way of information. "It will disappear at the end of the week."

"What are you going to do in the meantime?" asked Marbury, exchanging an intelligible smile with Mrs. Paragon.

Mrs. Paragon quietly answered him, unaware of the irony which lurked in her undisturbed acceptance of the inevitable.

"Peter says that no one stays in London during these next months. He says we must go to the North of Scotland."

"What are you going to do there?" asked Marbury.

"Peter is going to fish," said Mrs. Paragon.

When the time came Mrs. Paragon discovered that her part in the holiday in North Britain was to attend Peter during long happy days in lonely places where Peter mysteriously dangled in lakes and rivers. She dreamed away the time beside the basket of food and shared with Peter pleasant meals under the sky, quickened with his lively account of the morning's work.

News came once into their wilderness when Eustace Haversham died. In the letters Peter exchanged with Marbury and his sister he learned that the end had come at the close of a happy day in the sun, with people arriving and departing upon the terrace at Highbury. Haversham had smilingly received the congratulations of his friends upon his better health; then, with a look in his eyes showing that he at any rate knew better, he had died as the light fell from the bronze figure fronting the moor.

In long hours upon loch and river Peter sometimes thought of Lady Mary and their last meeting. He thought of her less as a woman than a lovely symbol of the life he was now called to lead. She stood in his eye, radiant and proud, thrown into relief by a mutter of poverty and ill-will. She was for Peter the supreme achievement of the time. The cool touch of her hand on his lips raised in him no remembered rapture. It had been not a personal caress but an act of worship, for which he could imagine no other possible expression. She charmed him, and made him afraid. The delicate play of her mind was intimately enjoyed by Peter in retrospect when he was able to realise the indulgence with which she had met his blundering.

Peter remembered his father and his years of revolt without misgiving for the way he now seemed to be taking. These memories enforced him towards all for which Lady Mary now stood. He so clearly had been wrong.

Early in September Peter and his mother returned to London. Peter, fearing to be bantered, furnished the rooms in Curzon Street without advice. The season was just beginning when they took possession.

Peter soon read in the fashionable intelligence that Lord Haversham--Marbury had shed the younger title--had come to town for the autumn session. He also saw that Wenderby had been staying at Highbury as the guest of Lady Mary and her brother. This displeased Peter. He would not surrender his animosity against Wenderby, or admit that he was mistaken. He owed this to himself in justification of his outbreak during the election. Now that he read Wenderby's name beside the name of Lady Mary, Peter was surprised to find how much he distrusted the man. He threw down the paper in a small passion.

"Why, Peter," said Mrs. Paragon, "what's the matter?"

"Nothing, mother."

Mrs. Paragon tried another way of approach.

"What's the news this morning?" she lightly inquired.

"Lord Haversham has come to town."

"With Lady Mary?" Mrs. Paragon quickly asked.

"Yes," said Peter. "Also with Lord Wenderby." He kicked the newspaper and went to the window.

"I see," said Peter's mother.

Perhaps Mrs. Paragon was right, and Peter was really jealous. Wenderby clearly belonged to the party which had arrived in town. He knew the language. He did not make heroically foolish scenes at a public meeting. Probably he had never incurred the laughter of Lady Mary. She did not make allowances for him, or look at him with protection in her eyes, or take an interest in him as someone from a strange world. Wenderby knew all that Peter had yet to learn.

Peter himself was worried to account for his ill humour, and even came to the point of asking himself the question which his mother had already answered. He decided that he was not personally jealous. Rather he was jealous of the privilege and experience which made Wenderby at home and at ease in the world which Peter desired to enjoy. Haversham had told him that Wenderby was a charming fellow. Peter wondered whether he would ever be a charming fellow; and, in a fit of misgiving, began to exhaust the possibilities of self-contempt. He had had a glimpse of the beautiful life; but suppose he were not worthy to enter. Suppose Haversham could not be the friend of a young colt who had nothing in the world to fit him for an agreeable part in the social comedy. Suppose he would never again come into touch with exquisite creatures like Lady Mary. Suppose he were doomed to follow the witty pageant of London life (which now was a Paradise in Peter's fancy) only through the columns of the fashionable intelligence. Suppose it were his destiny henceforth to hear of Lady Mary only when she happened to be entertaining Wenderby.

Peter was chewing this bitter cud at his mother's tea-table in Curzon Street when his man-servant (Peter, to his mother's dismay, had insisted on a man-servant) announced the figures of his meditation by name. Peter rose in a whirl, and before he had possession of his mind Haversham and Wenderby were taking tea with Mrs. Paragon. Mrs. Paragon received her guests with monumental calm, answered their inquiries after her holiday in Scotland with a quiet precision which suggested an irony of which really she was quite incapable, and wondered meanwhile why Peter was less talkative than a meeting with his best friend seemed to require.

"Peter," said Haversham at last, "you seem depressed."

"Not at all." Peter was the more laconic because he was suffering a quiet, persistent scrutiny from Wenderby.

"This," said Wenderby, "is surely not the sanguine young man who brought me to judgment."

"You remember that?" asked Peter briefly.

"I have come to apologise," Wenderby explained.

"I told you he should apologise," said Haversham.

"Isn't that for me to do?" asked Peter.

"I don't think so," Wenderby smiled. "You lost your collar and were nearly strangled."

"I would do it again," said Peter cheerfully.

"I admit the provocation," agreed Wenderby. He was quite unruffled by the vibrant conviction of Peter's voice.

"You must make allowances, Peter," put in Haversham. "It was a misfortune for all of us. That speech might have lost me the seat. Wenderby always puts public interest before personal feeling."

"The speech was a great success," said Wenderby. "It did not lose the seat, but it won the Cabinet. I have wrung out fifty-seven millions. The Tories could hardly have done better."

"No politics," protested Haversham. "Peter doesn't understand."

"How is Lady Mary?" asked Peter suddenly.

Haversham's phrase about "personal feeling" had stuck in his mind.

Wenderby glanced keenly at Peter, so keenly that Peter at once felt his question had touched a nerve.

"You must come and see for yourself," said Haversham. "We're moving into Arlington Street and Mary is being worried with decorators. She has even interviewed a plumber. I suggest that you look in at the Ballet to-night and encourage her."

"How shall I encourage her?" Peter gloomily asked.

"You are young, Peter, and youth is infectious."

"I wish I could catch it," said Wenderby; and Peter detected envy.

Shortly after they had left Peter made ready for Covent Garden. His master-thought was to get into touch with the life which at Highbury had so urgently attracted him. An encounter with Lady Mary would be the touchstone of his claim to be socially accepted. Also Peter knew that Wenderby would be there. He had seen in Wenderby the faintest gesture of annoyance when Haversham had mentioned the Ballet. Peter was sensitive to the least indication in Wenderby of a special interest in Lady Mary. Already there was a mutual faint dislike. Peter resented the keen appraisement of Wenderby's searching eyes. He felt the rapid working of a trained and subtle mind busily estimating his value. Wenderby, for his part, detected in Peter a wilful energy which, as a politician, he abhorred.

Mrs. Paragon preferred not to accompany Peter. He dined alone with her, and she found him clouded and cold. Afterwards he picked his way by cab to the Opera House, sitting bolt upright with a vague presage of complications to ensue. He joined the happy few carried to pleasure through the shining streets. Summer lingered wherever a foothold was offered to the green. It was warm, with cool air soft as the hum of the London traffic. But Peter's senses were shut to his position of ease. He was restive still under the penetrating eyes of Wenderby. He felt as if he were going into an arena. More than one woman turned in the crush of cars at Covent Garden to look at Peter's vivid, ingenuous face as he sat erect, frowning a little, staring blindly ahead. He was not actually thinking. Curious faint emotions came and went. His consciousness was ruled by a shimmering figure, infinite in grace and promise; but it rested under the threat of a cloud, which now was seen to grow dark and then to vanish.

A little later Peter found Lady Mary with his glasses; Wenderby stood beside her in the box. She saw Peter almost as his glasses were levelled, and leaned eagerly forward to greet him. Wenderby looked like one interrupted, and Peter could see how thoughtful he suddenly became. Then the lights were lowered.

XXX

When Peter, in the interval between the first and second ballet, entered the box of Lady Mary he formally embarked upon his career as a social figure.

Wenderby was Lady Mary's companion of the evening, for he sat securely beside her as Peter came. But she was radiantly pleased to welcome Peter, and even seemed anxious to exaggerate her pleasure.

The two men were vividly contrasted. Peter stood for youth--resilient, athletic, and eager. Wenderby as perfectly expressed the wisdom, tolerance, and disillusion of one who already had lived. He had just successfully finished a hard campaign in the country, and he was tired. The lines of his forehead were deeper to-night than he knew.

Lady Mary's cordial reception scattered Peter's vague misgiving. It restored to him the woman who, on the terrace at Highbury, had accepted his worship, thanked him, and understood.

"Your mother isn't here?" she said, as Peter found a chair.

"I could not persuade her."

"I must know her at once. Antony is quite positive about it."

"Antony is right," said Peter. "She is wonderful."

"Lord Wenderby is more fortunate than I am. He has seen her already."

"I'm afraid of her," said Wenderby. "She has that sort of silence which spoils my best conversation."

"You mustn't allow Lord Wenderby to frighten you." Peter paused, and added quite simply: "You will love my mother."

"I must meet her at once; but I cannot go out to-morrow. Will you bring her to me at Arlington Street?"

Peter at this was entirely happy. How could he have doubted that his precious intimacy with Lady Mary would be broken. Talking thus of his mother, she invited him to come closer yet. Peter wondered if Wenderby had ever seen her tears. She passed through her hands a string of pearls that hung about her neck, and Peter saw in them the frozen symbol of drops more precious. His eyes, as this conceit came into his mind, rested upon the stones as they fell through her fingers. He did not know he was looking at the hand he had kissed. Lady Mary drew it behind her fan.

"You like my pearls?" she said abruptly.

Peter started a little.

"They are very beautiful, but you do not need them," he said bluntly.

The crudity of his compliment was more effective than the most artful flattery. Wenderby looked wistfully at the two young faces, conscious that between them youth was singing. Peter's adoration was plainly written, and Lady Mary received it with a delicate flush of colour and a perceptible nervousness. Wenderby had never before seen her in the least perturbed.

He hastily turned the conversation, commenting on the ballet they had just seen--a ballet of lust and blood. It had stepped from the pages of Sir Richard Burton, barbaric in colour and music--frankly sadistic.

"This," he said, indicating the rows of brilliant and respectable people who had watched it, "is a feast indeed for the cynical. How many of these people realise what they have seen? How horrified they would be if you told them in plain English what they have just heard in plain music!"

"You are a musician?" Peter asked politely.

"Enough of a musician to know that even Sir Richard Burton never spoke plainer than this Russian fellow. It seems to me quite extraordinary that civilised people are able to sit serenely beside one another in a public place and hear things which they would blush to read in a private room."

It was strange that this ballet should recall a chapter almost forgotten. Peter, looking at Lady Mary, saw again a cherry-coloured ribbon folded between the leaves of her brother's book. Peter knew she had not touched that old fever. He could not think of her as kindling him in that savage way. He saw himself forever humbly repeating the caress of adoration.

Peter left at the end of the interval, fearing too eagerly to force himself. It was enough that he was to see Lady Mary again on the following day.

XXXI

Peter's appearance at Covent Garden precipitated in Wenderby an action upon whose brink he had stood for several weeks. He called upon Lady Mary in the morning and asked for her. She came into the room bravely affecting surprise. But too well she knew what was coming.

"Lord Wenderby," she began, "this is wonderful."

"That I should come to see you?"

"I read in the _Times_ that a Cabinet was called for this morning. Surely you should be there."

Wenderby shrugged his shoulders.

"The Cabinet," he said, "will be happier as they are."

"You say that bitterly."

"It's bitter truth," he answered. "I'm in the wrong set."

There was a short silence, and Lady Mary found it intolerable.

"Have you come just to grumble and go?" she inquired at last.

Wenderby paused a moment, as if looking for a way to open his mind; then he said abruptly:

"I'm going to rat."

"To leave the Cabinet?" Lady Mary exclaimed. She was now sincerely astonished.

"Perhaps," said Wenderby, looking at her intently. "It's in my mind. Politics are going to be very violent during these next years. All my friends are with the Opposition. My position will be dreary and difficult."

Lady Mary began to see his drift, and was dismayed at the sudden sinking of her spirit.

"Why do you tell me this?" she asked.

"I want you to help me," said Wenderby, and again he looked at her.

"How can that be?" she protested, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm not yet sure what I ought to do. I shall be giving up a great deal in leaving the Cabinet. I'm the youngest minister with a platform following. In a few years I should be leading the Party."

"What would become of your principles?" Lady Mary objected.

"They would suffer," he curtly replied. "But I should do my best for them. At any rate, I should do less harm than any other conceivable head of a Liberal Cabinet."

"You would be a fraud," she flashed.

"Not without justification," he coolly answered.

"Sophistry."

"Not at all. Making the best of a bad business."

Again there was silence. Wenderby found it difficult to come to the point. It was again Lady Mary who spoke.

"Have you come to me for advice?" she asked.

"Partly that."

"Then I advise you to follow your conscience," she said decisively.

"That is just the difficulty," he pleaded. "My conscience is vague."

"It tells you to come over."

Wenderby smiled. "Naturally you say that. My desertion now would shake the Government. Perhaps we might even pull them down. There's a chance."

"Your duty is clear," she insisted.

"I do not think so," he objected. "The Government may stand in spite of me. Then my moderating influence is destroyed. Is it my duty to put this uncertain thing to the proof?"

There was a short silence. Lady Mary saw Wenderby's logical trap closing about her. He bent eagerly towards her, and a pleading note came into his voice. Lady Mary could not deny that it pleasurably moved her to detect under the steel of his manner the suspense of entire sincerity. He utterly depended upon her answer.

"My conscience," he said, "does not help me. I cannot balance the right and wrong of this business. I want a better reason. I want the best reason in the world. I want you to be my wife."

Lady Mary did not move. Wenderby's sincerity saved him from the protest with which she had thought to meet it. Nearly a minute passed.

"You understand?" said Wenderby at last.

"I think I understand," she slowly answered, "that this is not exactly what it seems."

"Does it seem so terrible?" he pleaded. "Consider it from my point of view."

"You say that, if I marry you, you will leave the Cabinet. That is my price."

"Obviously, if you consented to marry me, it would be my crowning motive for coming to your people. It is a natural consequence."

"It is my price," she insisted.

"You are brutal," he said in a low voice.

Lady Mary flushed a little. "You do not like my word. Shall we say inducement? You tell me you will leave the Cabinet, but you do not trouble to ask me whether I care for you."

"Is that necessary?" said Wenderby, quite simply. "I know you too well. You like me and trust me. I think you admire me a little. I am forty-seven. I do not urge you to passion. I have appealed to you as a woman who can weigh the things of youth against other things, more important perhaps, certainly more enduring. I have been candid with you."

Lady Mary sighed.

"I wonder," she said, "how many English girls have been talked to in this way?"

"You are not just an English girl. You are Lord Haversham's sister."

"You mean," said Lady Mary sadly, "that I have no right to be loved in the common way?"

Again there was a short silence. Wenderby then rose, and put his hand upon Lady Mary's arm. He spoke now as one who loved her and understood.